


One For the Road

by alice_pike



Category: Broadway RPF, The Lightning Thief Musical RPF
Genre: F/M, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-28
Updated: 2019-05-28
Packaged: 2020-03-26 09:59:44
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,639
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19003495
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/alice_pike/pseuds/alice_pike
Summary: "So did you draw straws on who gets me first?" George asks, only half kidding.





	One For the Road

**Author's Note:**

> Set on March 31st of this year, the last night of TLT's run at the Beacon. George really did go see the first act of the matinee on this day, and he really did make an IG story about it: everything else is fake. I just need people I love to be in love with each other, okay? Okay.

George sends off the IG story almost immediately after he gets back to his dressing room at the Lyceum, still thrumming with energy and meaning every word of what he says. The show is _so good_ , and he's so proud of it; part of him is sad, of course, that he's not out there touring with them, but he's good where he is, too. He's _happy_. He loves his show and he loves playing Michael, and if it's a little harder today to get into character than normal, if his mind wanders a bit more than he usually lets it do this close to a show, he figures he can forgive himself. It's been months since he's seen them, months since they've been in the same city, much less the same room. He can't blame himself for thinking about it.

He's seeing them tonight.

One show today, and then he just has to wait until they're done with their second. Just a few more hours. He's been thinking about this—waiting and planning and just straight-up fantasizing wildly about it—for months. He can wait a few more hours.

He can.

 

He can't, however, set his mind to anything once he's done with the show, and he ends up just pacing around his apartment until both Kristin and Chris text him, within a few minutes of each other. He can only assume they're together, remembers that most of the cast likes to eat with each other after a show, so he opens the most recent text and sends Kristin a short "See you in a few" that he knows she'll pass along to Chris on the off chance that he's wrong.

He gets another text from Chris a few minutes later, a blank face whose bemusement at being ignored George can practically hear, followed quickly by an eggplant. Shaking his head, George leaves for their hotel. 

 

Kristin meets him by the elevator bank when he arrives, handing him the spare keycards to their rooms, leading him to hers.

"Chris is on the other end," she tells him, pointing vaguely down the hallway. "We tried to get conjoining rooms," she jokes, "but they wouldn't let us. They think we'd cause _trouble_."

He fakes a look of indignation, her "I know, right?" getting lost a bit in her laughter, and she ushers him inside. 

He puts his few things on the desk next to where she's leaning against it, watching him with a smile just this side of hungry. He can feel her eyes on him and it sends a thrill through him, even now, warming him from head to toe. They don't speak, but it's never been awkward between them, even after this started, and it's not now: The silence is expectant, not tense. They're all three on the same page about their priorities tonight, knowing they have the whole day tomorrow to talk and catch up and take things slow. Right now, it's been months since he's touched them, since he's been touched by them, and he wants it so much he's nearly thrumming with it. 

"So did you draw straws on who gets me first?" George asks, only half kidding. He knows that she and Chris don't really talk about it with each other, outside of general acknowledgement that it happens. They seem fine with it—more than fine, really (George suspects they like it, secretly sharing something—some _one_ —a surreptitious connection that they both cherish too much to risk opening it up to jealousy or doubt)—and if it works, he doesn't see a reason to fuck with it, even if he doesn't quite understand whatever understanding they have. 

"It works best like this," Kristin answers, more seriously than he had expected, if he'd been expecting an answer at all. It makes him wonder suddenly if maybe they _do_ talk about it, just not in the way he thought they would.

"I'm impatient and he's possessive," she adds with a smirk, and it's more the joke he was imagining, but now he can't tell if she's kidding or not. 

"So don't make me wait," she says, turning towards him, a glint in her eyes that has always meant good things for him and that makes his dick start to harden in his jeans, nearly Pavlovian in response. She reaches for him first, despite her words, fisting the collar of his shirt in her hands and pulling him with her as she backs up towards and onto the bed, leaving him no choice but to scramble on after her, settling between her legs. 

He kisses her before she has time to pull him in again, and she hums into his mouth, pleased with it. It's the best kind of shock, kissing her again, _finally_ , and it feels like the months it's been but also like it's been no time at all, like he's kissed her every day in the years since that first time, both of them nervous and unsure but heady with want, drunk with it, giddy with finally being together. He feels the same way now, that undiluted exhilaration sparking his every nerve as he gives into it, settles into the reality of it, that she's here, and Chris is here, and they are together again, if only for a moment. 

He can't and doesn't want to stop his own equally satisfied sighs and moans as they spend whole minutes just kissing—adjusting their positions on the bed, their hands roaming over each other's bodies, his fingers combing through her hair—but their mouths never separating for longer than it takes to suck in a quick breath before drinking each other down again, reveling in it, basking in it. He loves kissing her; he loves kissing them both, Kristin sure and steady and warm, Chris unpredictable and uncharacteristically reserved, a request more than a challenge in his tentativeness, one that George wants to answer every goddamn time. 

He's never loved them less, over the months and years; he has never missed them less, the longer they spend apart. Having them here—Kristin underneath him now with her hands buried in his hair, her lips on his and her tongue in his mouth, Chris waiting just a few doors down for the chance to do the same—he's never missed them more. 

Overcome with it in this moment, he breaks off the kiss almost on a sob, a heaving breath caught in his throat that he knows Kristin can at least hear, if not sense. And she does sense it, in a way that years on a stage together, in bed together, have honed and sharpened until it surprises even him sometimes in its accuracy. 

(It is a comfort, one that he cannot express, that it's still true even now, years later; one that, suitably, he does not _need_ to express: he can see it, reflected back to him, written on every inch of her face). 

She pulls him closer, wraps him tightly in her arms, hiking one of her legs up around his waist, and he burrows his face into her neck, breathing in the scent of her skin until he's collected enough to kiss her there, his tongue tracing over tendons and moving down past her rapidly beating pulse, sucking a bruise right above her collarbone. She arches into him, pulling him down at the same time with the leg still around his waist, and they both gasp at the contact, the emotion of the previous moment bleeding into a stronger wave of lust, one that has George reaching for the hem of Kristin's dress as she inches up the bed away from him, guiding him down her body with a gentle but persistent hand on his shoulder. 

He goes willingly, eagerly, hiking her dress up around her waist as she lifts her hips so he can pull her underwear off, tossing them over his shoulder almost comically, if either of them had the presence of mind to notice. He wastes no time settling in again between her legs, kissing up the inside of her thigh, resting her leg over his shoulder and nosing at the crease of her hip, teasing her with the proximity of his mouth, the warmth of his breath. 

"Oh my _god_ ," she protests after long moments of this, her voice barely a thready whine. "Georgie, please," she begs, sounding as desperate as he feels to have his mouth on her. 

He doesn't respond, not with words, just hikes her leg higher up on his shoulder and dips his head down to lick at her cunt, just shallow, repetitive strokes of his tongue that are nonetheless overwhelming after his earlier teasing. Kristin tries almost immediately to grind down onto his mouth to get more, to get him deeper, and he considers backing off, working her up even more before going down on her in earnest, but the thought is barely even formed before he dismisses it, needing this _now_ , just as eager as she is to get her off. So he doesn't move away, doesn't let up, licking her deeper every stroke until she grabs the back of his head and guides his mouth to her clit. He tongues at it immediately, sucking it between his teeth the way he knows she likes, and is rewarded by a low moan and a choked-off _"Fuck,_ oh my—" as she tightens her fingers in his hair to keep him in place. 

He smiles even as he sucks harder and as she starts to writhe against the sheets, her orgasm building. She tugs at his hair, pressing his mouth harder against her clit, and he acquiesces to the silent demand, knowing she needs more to come. Trying not to move his mouth away, he shimmies his hand from her hip down beneath his chin, slowly but deliberately putting two fingers insider of her. They slide in easily, and it's only a matter of minutes before he can feel her clenching around his crooked knuckles, her orgasm washing over her. He licks her through it until she tells him breathlessly that it's too much, and her leg trembles a little as she slides it off his shoulder, framing him between her raised knees. Her hands stay in his hair, and she curls it around her fingers as her breath slowly comes back. 

She wants to tell him everything she's thinking in that moment, _I've missed you_ and _I can't believe we're leaving again so soon_ ; or she wants to say something lighter, crack a joke, _Just as good as I remembered_ , but the words don't come either way. She can only look at him, George returning her gaze with a knowing smile, his fingers tracing over her skin. That look tells her that he knows everything she wants to say, anyway, that there's no need to voice it, not here, not now. 

She blinks away tears, so in love with him she can hardly stand it. 

"You ready?" he asks after a moment, when the silence is a little less heavy, and she can barely form a reply, "Ready for— _oh¬"_ before he's lapping at her clit again, his tongue pressing heavy against her. She's not as sensitive now but it still feels so _good_ , and she can only take a moment to appreciate that he still knows what she likes before she stops thinking altogether, letting the feeling overwhelm her. 

He uses his hands more this time, holding her open to lick deeper into her, fucking her with his tongue, and he lets it build, unhurried in way he wasn't—couldn't be—before. He waits until she's begging him for more, her sighs of pleasure melting into ones of frustration, before he slips his fingers inside of her again, quickly adding a third, then a fourth, stretching her open. She moans low in her throat as he starts to fuck her with his fingers now, pulling his mouth away from her clit every time she gets close, making her more and more desperate to come. 

She lets him do it a few times—he knows that she's always too impatient to pace herself when she's alone (or when she's riding him), knows that she likes being made to _wait_ , that she comes harder when she isn't in control of it—but the fourth time he tries to pull away, she tightens her grip in his hair almost painfully, not letting him move. So he doesn't, just thrusts into her harder and mouths at her clit until she cries out, her second orgasm coming harder and lasting longer than her first, her legs and stomach trembling as she rides it out. 

George slides his fingers out of her slowly once she's caught her breath, and she reaches almost immediately for the collar of his shirt, pulling him back up. She wraps her arms around him when he settles in on top of her, pressing light kisses to his temple, his hairline, the curve of his brow. He's still half hard, his dick almost uncomfortably pressed against his fly, but he ignores it for now: he wants something else out of tonight, and he'll be able to relive every moment of it when he finally gets himself off in his own bedroom, remembering the two of them and how they came undone under his hands. 

After a few moments, Kristin notices how seemingly unconcerned he is about getting anything in return, and asks him what he wants, what he needs. 

"This," he answers honestly. "I just wanted to make you come."

"Oh my god," she says, rolling her eyes, but George can tell she's flustered, too. "Really?"

He nods.

"Are you gonna do the same thing for Chris?"

"Yep," he grins.

"Uh huh," she says, deadpan. "And then what? Go back to your apartment and jerk off by yourself?"

She said it as a joke, but he answers with another "Yep," just as sincere as the first.

"Wait, really?" She lifts up her head to look at him better, serious now, a frown in the corners of her mouth. "But why? We're here all night, you don't have to—"

"I know I don't have to," he agrees, easy, but her gaze is more of a glare now, clearly conveying her displeasure at the thought of him alone, and he hastens to add, "but I _want to_. I want to be able to remember it when you leave. Have something to carry with me when you're gone."

She doesn't say anything, just nods, the moment somber with the reminder that this is just a respite, just a night and a day when they can be together again before she and Chris get back on the road. 

He hugs her tighter, not wanting to leave on such a note. "Just tonight though," he explains. "Let me, uhhh, catalogue this"—another eye roll, just as fond as the first—"and then we can spend all day tomorrow in bed."

"You mean Chris and I can spend all day in bed," she says, the beginnings of a laugh in her voice, "and you can run back and forth."

George nods. "And bring you food."

"Of course."

"We'll require…sustenance."

He tries to keep a straight face and Kristin can't hold it in anymore, barking out a laugh at the sheer absurdity of it. George follows suit, and they're both still laughing when he finally disentangles himself from her embrace. 

"All right," he says, standing up from the bed and pulling her up after him. "I have to go and see him." He pauses before adding, "You know how he likes to be able to taste you."

"Oh, _yuck,"_ she laughs, pushing him away with a hand to his face. "I _don't_ know. Don't tell me stuff like that. It makes it weird when I see him."

Not for the first time, he says, "I think it's weird that you don't talk to each other about it."

"We do!" she argues. "Just not about…each other."

He rolls his eyes at her.

"Go see to your boy," she tells him, pushing him away again, since he didn't actually move the last time. 

He smiles at her until she laughs, pulling him in for a quick kiss. "Really," she says, "he's been waiting all day."

 _"I've_ been waiting all day," he quips, but he's still smiling. 

"Then hurry up." She shoves him towards the door. "And I want you first tomorrow."

 

He stops once as he walks down the hall to Chris's room, has to lean against the wall and just breathe for a moment, shaking his head at the general absurdity of it. He loves it, of course, loves _them_ , loves that he can still do this, still have them—but he can't deny that it's _crazy_ , that this is his life right now. Living in each other's pockets a few years ago made it easier to pass off as a result of close quarters and late nights, an understandable, if not exactly normal, extension of theater's unique brand of intimacy. It was never 'just' anything, for any of them, but the ease of it made it feel normal; it didn't seem so outlandish back then, as they fell into a routine and it became who they were. But now, only a couple years later, he feels something like a teenager sneaking around on a field trip instead of a fully grown man spending the night getting off the two people he loves more than anything in their separate hotel rooms, no adult supervision required. 

Yeah.

He laughs out loud, slightly manic in the face of it, thankfully alone in the hallway. He shakes his head again to clear his thoughts, but can't help the inane smile as he keys into Chris's room. 

"George?" he hears from inside.

"Yeah, it's me," he answers, stepping in fully. 

"Finally," Chris says, appearing from the bathroom. "I thought she was going to keep you all night." There's a genuine laugh in his voice, but he walks towards George deliberately, the slight stiffness of his posture telling George just how long he's been waiting for this, how much he's been trying to stay in control. 

George opens his arms for the hug, ready for it when Chris throws himself into the embrace. 

"I've missed you," Chris tells him, and kisses him before George can reply. Chris makes a wounded noise in his throat as he tastes Kristin on George's lips, on his tongue, and George's dick strains against his jeans at the sound of it, how desperately turned on Chris is because of it. (And he wants Kristin to hear it, to know what this does to Chris—for both of them to be aware of what this means for each other—but he respects their boundaries, knows that they don’t talk about each other for a reason, whatever reason that is. They've always joked about it, the way he did with Kristin earlier, but it's never been anything productive, anything _serious_. He just wants them to be _happy_ , even when—especially when—he's not there). 

Just like with Kristin, he doesn't want to make himself slow down, turning the kiss dirty faster than he would've otherwise, his hands straying purposefully to Chris's hips, pulling him closer. Chris leans into it, grinds against him, but George slaps Chris's hands away when he reaches for George's fly. In response to Chris's questioning look, George just smiles and drops to his knees. 

"Oh," Chris says from above him, sounding a little awestruck, and George loves him _so much_.

 _"Oh,"_ he imitates fondly in a terrible impression of Chris's voice, fingers working deftly on Chris's zipper.

"Shut _up,"_ Chris whines, drawing it out, but George can tell how distracted he is already, focusing only on George's hands as he drags Chris's jeans and briefs over his hips, down his thighs, letting them pool at his feet. 

Chris is half hard just from the kissing, and George doesn't hesitate before taking him into his mouth. He swirls his tongue idly over Chris's dick, not sucking yet, just filling his mouth and taking him as deep as he can, feeling him harden under his tongue. 

"Oh," Chris says, again, but it's a sharp noise this time, one of obvious longing and pleasure. He doesn't move, unsure of what to do with his hands, letting George work him to full hardness at his own pace. And it's good, it's still _so_ good—not just because Chris hasn't seen him in so long, because he's been waiting for this for months, but because George knows what he likes like no one else he's ever slept with, remembers everything he's ever done that made Chris gasp or whine or come. 

And he does it now, building gradually the way Chris likes, barely ever pulling completely off of him, breathing steadily through his nose. He bobs slowly on Chris's cock, sucking only a little at first, until finally Chris has to reach out for him, laying his palm flat on the side of George's neck, barely guiding his head. George can feel the tremble in Chris's fingers, the tremor in his thighs where George is holding him steady, and pulls off to make sure he's okay.

"I'm good, yeah," Chris says earnestly. He gestures towards the bed. "Can I sit, though?"

"Yeah, of course," George says, helping Chris step out of the jumble of his clothes around his ankles, rubbing feeling back into his own knees as he gets up.

Chris doesn't laugh at him, but just barely. 

"Yeah, yeah," George huffs, following him to the bed. "Just wait a few years."

And before Chris can answer, George drops (carefully) to his knees again, taking Chris back into his mouth, picking up immediately where he left off. He speeds things up a little more, though, for himself as much as for Chris, eager to get him off. Sitting on the edge of the bed, Chris feels a little more natural, threading his fingers easily through George's hair, reverently cupping the side of his face, feeling his own dick through the thin skin of George's hollowed cheeks. 

"Oh, _fuck,"_ Chris exclaims, as George starts to suck at him harder, using his hands for the first time, his mouth working almost solely at the head of Chris's dick. After several minutes of this, his mouth relentless and his throat starting to ache, he can tell Chris is close, his grip tight in George's hair, his hips rocking back and forth almost of their own accord. Without shifting them too much, George slips his hand from Chris's balls under and back, rubbing steadily across his perineum, reaching towards his hole. 

Chris knows, from nearly the first moment George moves his hand, what he's trying to do, and he reacts almost preemptively, out of sheer anticipation, biting off his gasp as George reaches for him. It sends a thrill through George as he does it, wanting _so bad_ to be good for him, and knowing that he is. 

He can't do much in the way of finger-fucking without lube, but the sweat from Chris's skin is sufficient that he can press two fingers tightly against his hole, barely penetrating, and it's enough. He swallows Chris down a little deeper as he rubs his fingers against him, and he gets a muffled warning—a broken noise from Chris that can barely be considered his name—before Chris is coming down his throat.

George swallows it in messy gulps, tonguing at Chris's dick even as it softens in his mouth. He pulls off only when Chris tugs at his hair, his eyes still closed and his body slumped into the sheets now that he's come. George gingerly gets to his feet, his knees stinging a little now with carpet burn as well, and climbs on top of Chris, pushing him fully onto his back. 

"Hi," he says, when he's settled on top of him, nuzzled into Chris's neck, his own body weight pressing his erection into Chris's hip enough to make his mind fuzzy with need. 

"Hey," Chris says, unbearably fond, kissing the top of his head. 

"I've missed you," George says, and it sounds lighter than he feels, but Chris responds in kind, a mumbled agreement that carries the same weight. He thinks back to an hour earlier, with Kristin, how they never actually said these words—how they shared their feelings with looks, with touch, with that understanding that's always been between them. He sees it—feels it—here now, too, knows that Chris understands what he means, even what he can't say. He wonders, with a twist of something that's not quite melancholy and not quite jealousy, if Chris and Kristin have the same—if the sex is the cause of it, or just a part of it. He realizes quickly, though, that it doesn't really matter: their relationship is something that's always thrown George for a bit of a loop, and he doesn't need to understand it to respect it, to know that it works between the three of them better than he—better than any of them—could have hoped for or imagined. 

"Come here," Chris says into the silence, jostling his shoulder to get George to lift his head, leaning in to kiss him as soon as he does. George melts into it, boneless on top of him, but he knows that he's going to have to excuse himself soon, that he can't wait much longer to finally get his hand on his own dick. 

It's not until Chris starts to push at the waistband of his jeans, sliding his hands down George's ass, that George finally stops him. He kisses Chris once more, quick, before sliding off the bed. Chris's confusion is written clearly on his face, and George chuckles once at how much he's mirroring Kristin's expression without knowing it. 

"I just wanted you tonight," George tells him. "Both of you. Everything else can wait until tomorrow."

"Okay," Chris allows, his eyes still narrowed in confusion or skepticism, George can't tell. "You don't want me to—you don't want…anything?"

George shakes his head, smiling a little at both of their insistence, neither of them realizing that _that_ is what he wants to remember, on the nights he doesn't have them. 

"No, I'm good," George assures him, but leaning down for one more lingering kiss. 

"If you're sure," Chris says, not sounding entirely convinced, when George stands up again, makes ready to leave. 

"Just until tomorrow." He's already halfway through the door before he turns, smirking. "But you'll have to wait until she's done with me."

"How is that _fair?!"_ he hears Chris whine, even as he shuts the door behind him.

 

George knows how he must look as he walks back through the hotel, on the ride back to his apartment, as he unlocks his front door and heads immediately to his room, toeing off his shoes and throwing his wallet and keys unceremoniously on the first flat surface he comes across, his pants already off before he even makes it to his bed. He knows that he's simultaneously buoyant and secretive, effusive and reserved, his contentment tempered only by his need, coming and going in waves. By the time he finally gets his hand on his dick his skin feels like it's on fire, the anticipation of the moment both unbearable and perfect. 

He doesn't think about tomorrow, about the time they'll spend together and how they'll spend it; he doesn't think about the day after that, when Chris and Kristin will be back the road and he'll be back to waiting for them, and being waited for. He thinks only about tonight, and knows that it'll be enough.


End file.
